Wednesday, 12 December 2012


Poet's note: It took a long time to get around to finishing this, but here it is! It's a rubbish poem >.>

A warm room, lit by pale yellow lights.
She sits, and through her hair she peeks.
Her parents laugh and talk and joke,
But she sits, tears staining her cheeks.

A warm room, lit by bright white lights.
She lies, back down, hair fanned out.
Her parents frown at the rising cost.
But to save her life, they must hold out.

A cold room, lit by dim red lights.
She stands, face down, hands by side.
Her parents are not here anymore.
But to survive here, she must abide.

A cold street, lit by dim streetlamps.
She walks, face against the cold.
It's dark, and she's scared.
She's defied what she's been told.

A few years pass, watching her grow,
Physically, mentally maturing.
And now, on her own,
She lives, although always running.

Another few years, and her parents die.
She doesn't drop a tear.
Instead she smiles, remembering.
Memories she'd never hold dear.

She walks out the funeral, dressed in black,
She's walking without weeping.
Who's laughing now? she wonders.
Who's laughing?

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